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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22888030">There's Someone Knocking at the Door</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papapaldi/pseuds/Papapaldi'>Papapaldi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Prompts/Oneshots [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Gen, big sad, everyone dies and the Doctor makes a house call, old time lord tricks, rip the fam</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:00:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,849</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22888030</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papapaldi/pseuds/Papapaldi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Yaz shuts her eyes and imagines the sound of the Doctor's voice echoing through the ship; triumphant, some quip on her lips, a smirk on her face – and she breathes a sigh of relief as she feels the shock of a gun blast tear through her body. She keels over onto cold ground, trembling with that dull, death-beat march.</em>
</p><p>In which the Yaz dies (sorry) and the Doctor makes a house call.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thirteenth Doctor &amp; Sonya Khan, Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Prompts/Oneshots [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661650</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>97</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>There's Someone Knocking at the Door</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I thought I wouldn't write anything until after the finale but this came into my head as an evil, evil idea and I wanted to write it. Hope to gOD this doesn't come true (don't think it will) but still... sorry</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em>There’s someone knocking at the door.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Less of a knock, more of a bash. It’s deafening, and Yaz can hear the pneumatic snap of a thousand metal footfalls drawing near, marching a soldier’s death beat that echoes something monstrous in the cavernous hull. From the microphone beside her, the Doctor’s voice cries her name. <em>Yaz? Yaz, can you hear me? Yaz. </em>She takes it into her heart like a song. It gives her hope, that voice – always does. Impossible hope. Foolish, maybe, but it’s gotten her this far. From his feeble place of resistance at the door, Graham glances back at her. She nods at him, drawing a shuddering breath. <em>Come a long way</em>, both of them.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“They’re breaking through the door!” He cries, and a moment later is flung aside as the jagged, metal-teethed doors fold out, drowning the room in blueish light, and shining silver. Cybermen storm through, the black circles of their eyes blank and behind them, she knows, <em>people. </em>People like her. She steps forwards as the others shrink back; wide-stance, PC calm. Putting herself between danger and innocents, <em>like the Doctor’d do, </em>she thinks. Something else the Doctor would do is swoop in, right now, and save the day. Yaz shuts her eyes and imagines the sound of her voice echoing through the ship; triumphant, some quip on her lips, a smirk on her face – and she breathes a sigh of relief as she feels the shock of a gun blast tear through her body. She keels over onto cold ground, trembling with that dull, death-beat march. The static rolls on like an echo; <em>Yaz, Yaz, Yaz. </em>It plays a pleasant counter-melody to the screams of terror, and the shock of weapons firing. A moment comes, but none follow. A moment ends, and she’s gone.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">…</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>There’s someone knocking at the door.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Sonya jolts at the sound, alarm quickly settling into a sordid smirk as she rolls her eyes, and debates getting up. She’s sat at the dining table with her phone in hand, wiling away the remaining hours until her mates will be round to pick her up for drinks in town. She was supposed to be at work today, but she was laid off last week. It had, in reality, been less of a laying off and more of a storming out, stupid apron tossed to the ground and all. She hasn’t told her parents yet, but she doesn’t think they’ll be too angry. At this point, her unreliability, her irresponsibility – it’s practically expected. She’s the problem child, always has been. She decided a long time ago to lean into it.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">So, when she hears someone knocking at the door, it’s her first instinct to ignore it, else open it for a quick jab at whatever salesperson’s decided to to go banging on every apartment, before slamming the door in their face. Instead, she gets up, because it could be Yaz. Every knock, every call - it could be her sister, finally deciding it’s worth reminding Sonya that she’s still alive.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Sonya opens the door, storing a likely retort on her face in advance, pulling it into a scowl. What she sees wipes the calm, haughty expression into one of confusion. “What are you doin’ here?” She asks, standoffish. It’s Yaz’s weird friend – the one who talks too much and dresses like a clown. Sonya’s only met her once before. The Doctor, she’s called, but she’s not about to call her that.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The contrast she casts against the demeanour of her previous visit is palpable. She’s hunched, pale, face pinched and drawn into a sharp white, brittle shard. She looks like ice, and her eyes are dark. “Hi Yaz’s sister,” she says, weakly. Exhausted.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Sonya scowls. “Hi Yaz’s weird friend.” She injects as much malice into the phrase as she can manage.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Are your Mum and Dad home?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“No. It’s 3pm on a Friday, they’ve got jobs. Unlike you, apparently.” She folds her arms, tilts her head. Proper sass. She’s good at being a stroppy teenager, which makes the fact that her teen years are almost over all the more daunting. “Is Yaz around?” The Doctor’s shoulders tremor as if struck with a blow. Sonya’s expression softens. She’s not completely heartless. “You alright?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I should really wait until your parents get home,” she mutters, dragging a trembling hand through her hair, causing it to stick up about her face. It does nothing to soften her haggard look.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“They won’t be back for a while.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Hmm.” She looks down at her shoes, scuffing them against the welcome mat.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You want to come in or somethin’? You look like a total mess.” Her tone is biting, but her eyes are kind. Even from their brief first meeting, Sonya gathered that this woman isn’t the most put-together sort. She knows a front when she sees one – instead of snark and haughtiness, this woman has her smiles and her bumbling speech.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I shouldn’t.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I don’t mind. I can try callin’ Yaz for you but I can’t promise she’ll answer. She’s off doin’ secret spy stuff, but you probably know that.” Sonya wonders if the Doctor hears more from Yaz than she does, which is hardly ever. Again, the Doctor flinches, seeming to curl in upon herself. “Why’d you want to talk to my parents?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“There’s something I need to tell all of you.” The intensity in her expression catches Sonya off guard. The sharp line of her shoulders under that ridiculous coat is stark against the grey afternoon beyond. “I wasn’t going to come but… I couldn’t just leave. I couldn’t just leave you wondering.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“What are you talkin’ about?” No hint of snark to her now, all trepidatious curiosity.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Yaz wasn’t with special ops, she was travelling with me.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Sonya’s eyes widen. “I knew it!” She cries, hands flying to her hips. Yaz has always been secretive about her work – special ops, she said, which made sense, but Sonya was persistent, and sometimes her sister let things slip. Inconsistencies. There was that, and the fact that Yaz was always going on about her squad leader who, when described, sounded exactly like the Doctor. Then<em> this </em>was the woman Sonya had heard so much about; kind, brave, and completely mad. Not exactly the sort you’d expect from special ops. So, Yaz is the one skiving off life for once – unemployed and trailing along after some thirty-something. It was usually Sonya’s job to slack off and knock about, hanging off the arm of some older guy. Her parents are going to love this. “And what, now you’re guilty or somethin’ – want to tell her parents about how you’ve stolen their daughter. I mean how old are you anyway? Forty?” She smirks, though it falls flat at the sight of the Doctor’s expression. It stirs something within Sonya herself, because it doesn’t make sense. All the stuff Yaz has described doing; deescalating conflicts, saving people’s lives, infiltrating secret facilities – they were all far too put-together stories to be fabricated. Yaz was never the creative sort.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I could’ve faked it,” the Doctor says, now staring past Sonya and into the flat. It’s as if she’s addressing herself more than anyone else. Not seeing her. “I could’ve smoothed it all over, sent some official apology from the government, nice bit of compensation, but I’m sick of lying.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You what?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She stares directly into Sonya’s eyes, a deadly glare. “Yaz is dead.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Come off it.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry, Sonya –“</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I said come off it!” She snaps. She’s tempted to slam the door in the Doctor’s face. Obviously it isn’t true, obviously she’s lying or it’s some awful prank, except Yaz would never play this sort of trick, especially not on her. Not after everything they’d been through.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry.” She won’t even meet Sonya’s eyes.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Stop apologisin’ and start explaining yourself, how’d you mean she’s dead?” Her voice breaks, hands falling to her sides. She still doesn’t believe it – won’t, not until she sees some sort of evidence. Not until the Doctor starts making sense.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m guessin’ she told you about her travels, saving people, sorting out conflict.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Yeah, but that was all a lie. She was just off with you, you said so–“</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“It wasn’t a lie. You won’t believe me, but she was travelling through time and space–“</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Oh, you are <em>actually </em>insane–“</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“She was,” the Doctor says, stony. There’s no hint of that old bumbling silliness. No indication that this is a joke. “She saved,” and her eyes grow wide, whimsical. Tearful. “– <em>entire worlds. </em>She was brilliant,” her voice trails to a whisper, “she was beautiful.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Stop talking,” Sonya hisses. “Just get out, go home. Don’t come back.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“You don’t believe me–“</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Well of course I don’t fucking believe you!”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The Doctor sighs. “That’s alright. I just thought you should know the truth. I think I owe you that much.” She looks up at the grey sky, hands finding their place her her pockets. “You won’t see me again.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Good,” she snaps, and shuts the door in her face.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">The first thing she does is fish her phone from her pocket, dashing away tears that are half anger, half panic, with a swipe of her wrist. There’s a notification waiting for her from Yaz, sending a shudder of relief through her. Apologising, she hopes, for her friend’s awful joke.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><em>Sorry, </em>Is all it says, and Sonya feels tears sting her eyes anew.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">…</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">From the other side of the door, the Doctor hears Sonya crying out into the receiver. <em>Yaz? Yaz, are you alright? Yaz</em>. She takes it into her heart like a sickness. She lets it fester, lets it burn guilt and shame and longing into her hearts. Didn’t she warn them? Didn’t she say they had to be sure? But that was just the problem, Yaz was the surest of any of them, and sure of her, too. Sure she would save her. Graham’s gone, but he’s easy – there’s no one she feels obligated to tell. The world will assume that Ryan Sinclair did a runner, as so many kids his age did. Escaping, both identity and obligation. She should know, she once did that very thing. She should probably tell Tibo, but she draws the line at family. <em>Drew the line, </em>she corrects, because rest assured, she will never be doing this again. She whispers it to herself like an addict, promising themselves to go cold turkey, give up their fix for good. Promises like that never last long. It’s one she’s made plenty of times before, and broken. Deep in her hearts she knows she will again.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She can’t face Yaz’s parents, as shameful as it is to admit. She can’t bear to face her mistakes.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She may be sick of lying, but she’s awfully good at it.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">…</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>There’s someone knocking at the door. </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Sonya’s in the kitchen, hanging about in the corner of the room. No one’s noticing her, no one cares that she’s falling apart. Her parents are watching telly – some terrible historical soap – when they turn towards the door. On her phone screen, Yaz’s text blares, followed up by a dozen of her own, increasing in their desperation with each new lurid blue bubble. <em>Sorry bout what?/You okay?/Where are u?/Please answer/Yaz/Please just text me back. </em>She hasn’t told her parents <span class="s1">– </span>what’s she supposed to say? <em>That crazy Doctor lady came by and apparently Yaz has been travelling with her through time and space. Oh, and another thing; Yaz is dead. Your favourite daughter is dead. </em>Telling them would make it seem real, and Sonya doesn’t believe it yet. She can’t allow herself to believe it.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Her mother untangles herself from her many blankets, setting a glass of wine down upon the coffee table. She bustles, a left-over smile on her face, towards the door. There’s a letter laying on the mat; white envelope, official-looking seal. Najia opens the door a crack, but the deliverer is gone. Hakim pauses the TV as Najia sits back down, already prising open the envelope seal with a calm curiosity. Sonya edges closer, coming to stand behind the sofa. The light from her phone <em>(Sorry) </em>illuminating the beginnings of tears forming in her eyes.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“What’s that then?” Hakim asks.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Special ops, I think. It’s from the government, look at the seal,” and Najia tosses her husband the envelope to lord over in awe. As an avid lover of conspiracies – particularly the government sort – finding out his daughter was working for special ops was like a dream come true for Hakim.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Is it for Yaz?” He asks.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Addressed to us,” she replies, unfolding the letter. Sonya watches her mother’s face in the reflection on the TV screen. It falls, smile faltering and widening into a gasp as she throws a hand over her mouth, tears forming in her eyes. Over her shoulder, Sonya sees words like “apologies,” “service,” and “compensation.” She can’t stand it. She dashes from the living area, throwing herself down onto her bed. From the lounge, she can hear her mother crying; strangled sobs and panicked breaths. Sonya buries her face into her pillow, and lets the terrible reality grip her completely, tear at her, drag her down. Yaz is dead.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Yaz is dead, and she’s the only one who knows the truth.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>And there’s someone knocking at the door. </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Sonya gathers herself, sniffing, and pads to the door. She expects to find her parents, coming to break the news, but she doesn’t. She finds the Doctor.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She finds the Doctor, and resists the urge to leap at her, and punch every inch of her she can find.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Why are you back?” she asks, voice trembling. “How did you get in?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Front door,” she says. Her face is etched with a calm, patronising sympathy, and her eyes are like stone. “Your parents will wake up soon. They won’t remember seeing me.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“What do you mean?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Do you want me to do something for you?” She asks, cutting across Sonya’s question. The Doctor’s nose twitches, hands laced together in front of her, fingers twisted into knots. Nervous.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She musters all the anger in her being and spits; <em>“I want you to leave</em>.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I think I made a mistake in telling you about Yaz – the truth, I mean. Don’t you agree that lies are sometimes easier?” Her gaze is almost imploring, in a shrouded, ancient way. For the first time, Sonya sees something in that gaze that scares her, and wonders if Yaz ever saw it too. With all the praise she gave the Doctor, Sonya thinks she probably didn’t. Her first impression of a bumbling, socially-awkward idiot baffles Sonya to the point of hilarity. Sonya’s good at pretending, but she’s never seen a front as good as that.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">She tells the truth. “Yeah, I think sometimes they are.” Maybe it’s not the right thing to say, it certainly isn’t virtuous, but she thinks it’s true. She lies all the time; lies about having a job, about being okay, about being a snarky, exhausting problem child just so she has an identity to cling to. Yaz lied too – about where she went on all those secondments – because the truth was too strange, too illusion-shattering, for the rest of their contented, mundane lives.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Would you like me to lie to you now, Sonya Khan?” She reaches out a hand, and instead of flinching back Sonya finds herself rooted to the spot as the woman touches an icy fingertip to the side of her head. In an instant, she feels a strange sensation unfolding from the point of contact; tendrils of cold reaching through her synapses like roots through the earth. She feels her mind cracked open, and edging a pale hand through that crack is the Doctor, but her face is different. It’s a blurred mass of indistinguishable features, faces pressed transparent into one. </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“What are you?” She shivers, afraid.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I’m no one,” the Doctor answers, from beside her in the room, and from within her own thoughts, words jostling in between the gaps in her internal voice, shoving it aside. “Thing's are going to be easier for you this way. Easier to understand. Easier to move on from.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">In her mind, a knock is rescinded, a conversation erased, and an anxious day spent worrying over a text (<em>Sorry) </em>blurs to a hazy memory. She feels the lie take her in its arms, as does the Doctor – cold hands upon the fabric of her shirt as she lowers Sonya into bed.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">…</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>There’s someone knocking at the door. </em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Sonya jolts awake. Her phone sits beside her blaring blue light into the dark. A grey bubble reads; <em>sorry, </em>but she can’t remember why.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Her mum lets herself into the room, her eyes red and puffy, lip trembling. Her dad stands behind her, a bracing, quivering hand on her shoulder, fresh tears streaking his face.</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“What?” She cries, sitting up, “what is it?”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Sonya,” her mum sobs, “I’m sorry. It’s bad news, from special ops.” Her stomach plummets, dark and hollow. Najia takes a shuddering breath. “Yaz is dead.”</p>
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